Any other thought of her would mean ruin.
Before dawn they were called, and started as the sun showed over the
horizon.
So they ran into the western country, near to the Morocco border. Dull
at first, save for its flooding flowers, soon the way wound among dark
mountains, from whose helmeted heads trailed the long plumes of white
cascades, and whose feet--like the stone feet of Egyptian kings in
ruined temples--were bathed by lakes that glimmered in the depths of
gorges.
It was a land of legends and dreams round about Tlemcen, the "Key of the
West," city of beautiful mosques. The mountains were honeycombed with
onyx mines; and rising out of wide plains were crumbling brown
fortresses, haunted by the ghosts of long-dead Arabs who had buried
hoards of money in secret hiding-places, and died before they could
unearth their treasure. Tombs of kings and princes, and koubbahs of
renowned marabouts, Arab saints, gleamed white, or yellow as old gold,
under the faded silver of ancient olive trees, in fields that ran red
with blood of poppies. Minarets jewelled like peacocks' tails soared
above the tops of blossoming chestnuts. On low trees or bushes, guarding
the graves of saints, fluttered many-coloured rags, left there by
faithful men and women who had prayed at the shrine for health or
fortune; and for every foot of ground there was some wild tale of war or
love, an echo from days so long ago that history had mingled
inextricably with lore of fairies.
Pages:
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188